


Passing Time

by ijemanja



Category: Leverage, Ocean's (Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-29
Updated: 2009-01-29
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1930743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijemanja/pseuds/ijemanja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come for the art, stay for the girl, isn't that always the way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passing Time

Come for the art, stay for the girl, isn't that always the way? There's an exclusive little gallery looking over the Seine, and it should have made for an easy mark but here she is, days later, no richer, and certainly no wiser.

It's probably the hair, Sophie decides. Definitely the hair, or else it's the shoes that first catch her eye. The way the woman's eyes settle on something beautiful and no one in the world could know what she's thinking. Sophie thinks it could be anything about her, or all of it together. But whichever it is, Tess turns out to be far more interesting than any of the minor Impressionists on display.

"Me?" Tess says. She's smiling, just a little, nowhere near as wide as she _can_ smile. And Sophie has been trying to coax it out of her, and not only because everyone is more pliable when they are happy. "Oh," Tess says, "I think it's the accent. Either the accent, or the shoes."

Sophie invites her back to her flat.

She opens a bottle of wine and leaves it to breathe on the window sill by the bed while Tess licks her way from the slope of Sophie's breast to the hollow of her jaw. She leaves marks everywhere she touches, red against Sophie's collar bone, bite marks on the inside of her thigh. There will be bruises on Sophie's hips from being held still when she wanted to arch off the bed; the deep crescent imprint of a fingernail where Tess grips her wrist as she tongues Sophie's nipples.

Tess's fingers press inside of her, push deeper, pull out rough and slide back in, dragging the orgasm out of her like a storm out of a bottle. Afterward, Sophie can only imagine what that will feel like come morning, what marks will be left behind where no one will see.

Around midnight, they pass a glass of wine back and forth between them. Tess's bare leg swings from the window sill where she sits to smoke a cigarette. Sophie watches her from amongst a mess of sheets: the way Tess follows the curl of smoke with her eyes, and doesn't know what to do with the ashes.

"You don't smoke."

"Yeah," Tess draws out the word. "I don't do a lot of things."

"Like follow strange women home?" She leans over the side of the bed to snatch up the wine bottle and refill the glass. "Are you married?"

"No. Not any more. Not really."

"Good answer."

"I guess it is. You just -" she stops, pauses, "remind me of someone."

Tess drops the forgotten cigarette in the almost-empty bottle. In another moment her hand is sliding along Sophie's thigh, her mouth is hot on Sophie's throat, and it is starting all over again.

In the morning, sunlight falls through the window, warming Sophie's feet.

Tess is sitting up, pulling on her blouse. "You could tell me your real name," she says without turning around.

Sophie rolls over to look at her, this woman who can see a con coming from a mile away.

But she doesn't say her name. She says, instead, "Why did you come?"

"Because you're just so good with your hands?"

They both smile at the absurdity of a dirty joke here and now, and nobody tells any secrets.

"Ever find yourself just hating the things you love?" Tess says. "Or loving what you hate?"

Sophie is tempted to roll her eyes. Because the thing is, of course, Tess reminds her of someone, too.

"No," she arches, stretches, curls around her pillow, "what would be the point in that?"

Tess slips out of the room, and there are a lot of other exclusive little galleries out there, Sophie thinks.


End file.
